


White Rabbit

by infradead



Category: Mafia (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Established Relationship, F/M, Minor Character Death, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racist Language, Romance, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:29:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infradead/pseuds/infradead
Summary: "She was one of the head medical staff in charge during the CIA black ops you and Lincoln Clay were involved in. And it’s true that she had a hand in providing medical assistance and murdering for Clay after returning, is that correct?"





	1. Polaroids

With all due respect, John Donovan wouldn’t have been obliged to answer any of these questions at all. But in truth, in some sense of disrespect if he hadn’t, there wouldn’t have been any meaningful questions in the first place. It’s not like he wanted to drag your name into the back and forth warzone of the cross-examining. Not when the prodding and prying began and he had little choice, taking another calm and cool breath of his cigarette to iron those nerves out.

“Do you recognize her?”

There’s a photo tacked onto the plethora of _incriminating evidence_ on the massive pinboard resting behind the senator who’s so inclined to ask. The tip of the pointer he uses taps against one, grainy but a photo that’s been singled out and hunted for because of the simple shot alone. Easy to identify to both the ones who don’t know her vis-á-vis, like the pricks down at the Bureau, and the ones who do.

Ghostly rivulets of smoke pour and wisp between Donovan’s lips as he leans back casually in his seat. He’s had the good fortune of being the few who _did_ know her. A memory of hot winds and napalm in the humid breeze. A bright flash, your smile, fading away into something softer against those blood-stained medic fatigues.

“Sure I do. Matter of fact, I was standing right next to her in that photo before it got cropped and superimposed.”

Senator Blake wisely ignores everything but the affirmation. “June of 1968. Lieutenant Nurse [Name] Leverett shipped back to the States after being discharged from her post in Saigon. She was one of the head medical staff in charge during the CIA black ops you and Lincoln Clay were involved in. And it’s true that she had a hand in providing medical assistance _and_ murdering for Clay after returning, is that correct?”

You’re not even present and Donovan’s quick on the defense, sitting up straighter and taller, all teeth and bark. “Damn right she did. If it wasn’t for her pulling those shrapnel slugs out of Lincoln’s head--”

“--he would’ve died. Thus ending this from happening at all.”

Donovan scoffs, tapping his cigarette on an ashtray. “You guys act like you’ve never heard of the Hippocratic Oath before. Had it been any other white asshole, people would be screaming their goddamn heads off if she’d diagnosed him to plead the fucking insanity defense.”

“It’s not just that, Mr. Donovan. We weren’t aware the oath included robbery of medical supplies and equipment from local hospitals. Hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of supplies redirected towards the systematic dismantling of the Marcano crime family.”

There’s another memory that’s quieter, sweeter. Being a nurse in ‘Nam, it… there was something that certainly had served as a catalyst, some trigger to those thousand-yard stares. A recollection of mud-caked boots on a dry patch of scorched grass, soft words spoken and passed between you and the calm Lincoln Clay seated at your side.

When Lincoln smiles it’s all teeth and charm. You’d called it a killer then, yeah. A grainy, pastel and polarized image with no sound of you glancing over your shoulder, grinning something sharp but it’s not quite meeting those tired eyes.

“...One way or another, she was gonna do what she had to,” Donovan slowly admits. “The things she’s seen out there, no nurse should have to go through. You don’t know what the smell when napalm hits a body is like, senator, not when you’re pledged to save lives.”

“And then she saw fit to taking them. _Overdosing_ them. You’re calling _that_ a cry for saving lives? It’s a quiet killing. She _murdered_ them all just the same as the rest, any last one in Lincoln Clay’s way. Didn’t matter how she did it. _Who_ she did it to.”

Senator Jacobs slowly twiddles with his thumbs, letting that silence linger after Blake. It’s an easy confession; an honest one not long after.

“Damned shame how it turned out, that girl.”

And that last drag Donovan takes is long, burning, resolute. A scoff around his cigarette. Another flash of an unrefined memory lit softly in sepia dreams, a cigarette being passed between Lincoln to you against the dawn-lit sky. Nothing but teeth and eyes in those smiles beneath the dripping rim of mesh helmets. Words venturing about a shipyard in California. Strange where happiness can be found in a foreign place you’ve come to rob of their own.

Donovan shakes his head, letting that smoke billow through his nose. 

“Wish I could agree with you, sir, but I’m sure fucking glad I won’t. This _girl_ , this _nurse_ saved more lives than any of you miserable fucks could. And I’d bet my own stake on it in a heartbeat all over again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't written anything in a minute but I am about 75% through the game. Some good practice to kick in while I get through it. Might finish it soon before the week curbs in, so an update might roll in soon! ;)


	2. Cigarette Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I heard getting shot in the head kills, too, but our mutual friend here seems to have fucked that theory over.”

By candlelight Lincoln’s face has softened in his slumber, portraying a far different man than the one you’re sure is still prowling, dormant beneath that gentle expression before the flaring gunshots. Blood-soaked bandages rest on the nightstand, your fingers curling back slowly from the newly replaced one round his head. It’s quieter even then, the only thought to break the silence being the murmuring sound of the television set in the other room.

You don’t have to glance across your shoulder to know John Donovan and Father James are occupied there, glued to the television screen ever since the tragic news spreading wildfire across the nation. Another Kennedy assassinated just mere _days_ since you’ve returned. JFK, Dr. King, and now Robert F. Kennedy… 

As if you have any reason to feel anymore safe back on domestic soil than you did in a medical tent back in Saigon, risking the thought of being shelled at a moment’s notice.

Not a handful of happy thoughts tonight, no. At least you can do right by someone, answer the call when needed most. Your eyes rove, studying with slow curiosity towards the beast of a man before you. Not once did he come visit you in the tents with ailments or medical attention. Never made it his mission to become a bothersome hassle. There’s a faint thought of him teasing you about personally stripping him down for examination. Another follow-up of you beating that grinning face beneath a mud-caked helmet with a pillow.

The memory of it alone is almost enough to make you laugh. But when you see him, crippled and weakened and above all _betrayed_ \--you can’t summon the energy to do so. Just as soon as it’s born in your lungs it’s gone. A sense of unfairness overcomes you, wrought within you an unbearable grief for your friend. In peacetime even he can’t find a way to stay from trouble. Both him and Donovan had returned before you, and you’d only just arrived less than three days back in the States before it's all being deeply seated in turmoil all over.

A sense of wariness washes between your aching bones, resting against your knees. A sense of guilt for an action not even your own. You’d arrived in New Bordeaux only to take Lincoln back to California with you, a promise made overseas on foreign soil. Runaway dreams and a decent life that couldn’t fit to mold. He’d only come back to say his final goodbyes to Sammy and Ellis.

With little premonition you reach for his hand against the bed sheets, lifting it up to your lips. Anything to comfort you now in these thoughts. That he’d have to witness his family’s murder, to have everything ripped from his life not once but twice. His knuckles are thick but comfortingly warm, weathered and beaten from keeping Ellis out of trouble. Even to your years shared in Vietnam.

Just the thought of it hurts, stings, leaves this lingering bite that is more than unwelcomed. Out of you all, it’s him who deserves all the happiness he can get. Some sense of belonging that he much needed in his time out in the army. Even with your fingers gripping his limp hold you can’t stop the trembling.

From fear or fury, it’s a thought powerful enough for you to release his hand. Long enough for you to hurriedly fix a cigarette between your lips and fight with the lighter that won’t seem to breathe life to a single flame. There’s a promise of meeting Sammy and Ellis somewhere between the open-door helicopter rides, legs dangling above coconut palm trees. It doesn’t rightly make much sense to find comfort in home when you’re out trying to find purpose in a different one.

That cigarette burns down your lungs, eviscerates that lingering weight of shame into smothering embers. They’ll wake another day, of course. Set fire to kindle and take you with but not at this moment. That gentle rise and fall of Lincoln’s chest is all you need to know that he’ll live even if he’d barely just clung to life. In another room there’s moving pictures replaying over and over that scene, those gunshots, _is everybody OK?... Everything's going to be OK..._

You don’t notice it at first. Not in the quietness of the room or the crucifixion hung praying above the headboard. It’s an even heavier stench of cigarette smoke, intertwined with hints of a brief cologne that you’re surprised a CIA stipend can afford.

The jacket he’s so generous to encompass your shoulders is warm and too large for you. There’s no move to shrug it off, no glancing over to meet his own teasing gaze, cradling that lit cigarette between your middle and forefinger.

He has to recognize the weight of this, what this is doing to you by one sweeping glance of your expression alone. You don’t know a day John Donovan has ever been so obstinate, uncaring of his emotions, ruthlessly passionate about what he believes in and what he says or how to express them. If anything can hinder or ruin his day you’ve yet to discover it--because he’s so steadfast on being the one _responsible_ of doing it.

Donovan, true to his discretion, studies quietly and unannounced. His eyes are on your frame, cradling that smoking cigarette as you meet his gaze tiredly across a shoulder, other arm pressed and tucked beneath your breasts. Taking him in, weighing him. It’s like he never wears anything but that cashmere-colored suit looking every part of a door-to-door salesman. You suck in another drag as if to scorn him tiredly, playfully, smoke billowing softly through your nostrils.

“Thought you quit a while back,” Donovan eloquently points out anyways, plucking the cigarette from your lips to bring up to his own. “Then again, with the shit we’ve seen, can’t say I blame you.”

“Doctor’s orders.” You blow out that last bit of drag you’d been allowed. “Pills, cigarettes... doesn’t matter what kills if both are gonna do it anyways.”

“I heard getting shot in the head kills, too, but our mutual friend here seems to have fucked that theory over.”

You almost laugh--it comes out more as a soft breath, glancing over at your so-called mutual friend. Motionless, unresponsive as ever. His five-’o'clock shadow is winning a losing battle and growing thicker against his jawline. But he’s still breathing, he’s still twitching and trying to toss and turn in his sleep.

It isn’t all for nothing. You wonder if you’re doing him a favor, allowing him to cling to this last bit of life despite the ones stripped from it. If it’d be easier to let him go, to staunch one bad thing from happening to the next. But those clouded memories, those sepia, soundless thoughts flash and beam in ways that sway you further. There’s still hope in this life, room for improvement and rebuilding, only if the ones responsible can be dismantled in the process.

Pave over and begin anew.

Donovan’s hand on your shoulder is the only thing anchoring you to the chair, your hand searching for Lincoln’s once more.

“I got the files ready for when he comes to. Meaning you’ll have to be ready for whatever starts getting thrown our way, and I expect a _shit-ton_ of bodies to come piling at our doorstep.”

“It’s like I’ve never worked a medical tent in Saigon to save my life.”

At least he has you warmed enough to fire back, something that even gets him to smirk between that stump of a cigarette. This time it's both hands that touch your shoulders, drawing comfort in a place within you that hasn’t seen daylight in what feels like ages. 

A squeeze, a light shake to let you know that you’re not the only one prepared to give Sal Marcano and his crime family more than just a reason to fear. A systematic dismantling; a dissembling of stone-by-stone in place of your own.

However long or arduous this road may be, there’s no walking off its path now.


	3. Vouloir, C'est Pouvoir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You a little fan of an old school, silver fox Italian mobster who needs medical attention?”

**Excerpts from an interview  
with retired FBI Assistant Director Jonathan Maguire…**

_What many people seem to forget… is that she’d started working locally with the Haitian mob. Small jobs, more like the mob was working for her. Now, some of the Haitians still held this particular belief that their deities had the utmost power--this, ah, healing power. Cassandra, being a well-known Voodooist practitioner, was aware that some of her critically-conditioned men wouldn’t survive without proper medical attention._

_Since Lieutenant Nurse Leverett had a small base of operations to work in, the--uh, medical supplies could be properly taken account of. The Haitian mob wasn’t a small group by any means, and I can imagine it certainly put in a few good graces and favors between her and Cassandra._

_Now, as to where Leverett had found her supplies… it isn’t too far to speculate that she’d taken a few military-grade shipments on her way back from Saigon. Records indicate that she’d arrived back roughly around June 5th, 1968, some time much after Lincoln Clay had returned. It wasn’t a staggering amount of supplies she brought, not enough to garner any local attention from her superiors or she would’ve been caught much before she could even step foot in New Bordeaux._

_...Unfortunately, there’s much I still don’t know in terms of the details and extent of her involvement with the Marcano Crime Family. We know she acted as a personal physician for Clay and his underbosses, but the records had been hidden so well, redacted and most of her files had been removed from the archives._

_There are… interesting speculations and stories as always. What I can confirm is that they’d met during a black ops when Clay was borrowed over by the CIA. She’d been stationed there as a head nurse for the job with paramilitary operations officer John Donovan._

_From then on it’s the exemplary story: outstanding service record, a handful of confirmed kills--hell, even got herself a Purple Heart. She performed and she performed damn well under pressure, more than to be expected for someone of her time._

_As valorous as that was, we all know how it turned out in the end. And my question, a question that I’m still asking myself to this day: what were her full involvements with the CIA, and why are the records of a military nurse so safely guarded? You’d think someone of her caliber would be a front-page headline but there’s virtually nothing left on record of her accounts. Nothing about her prior history with the agency, if she was even part of the agency to begin with._

_My guess? Either she was involved in something so scandalous, so controversial that the CIA would cover for her..._

_...or she had an inside guy who did._

* * *

Barely two weeks into the new summer month and Lincoln Clay’s already stripped Delray Hollow back into Haitian rackets. Certainly not enough noise to bring Sal Marcano down from his doorstep--not by a long shot. But certainly enough of a victory. Prying the Hollows away from Marcano’s bullshit is a breath of fresh air all on its own, but even in long-term it won’t be enough.

It feels good now until it sinks in how deeply rooted Sal Marcano’s men control New Bordeaux.

Which is why Lincoln’s all the way out in River Row, stirring up another storm that might just clean out the shit in the ears of Marcano’s lieutenants. Cassandra’s addition had been much needed and welcomed, but for her to run New Bordeaux alone isn’t an option to settle on so lightly. It’s why Donovan brought up a few more files on hand, a few good men who might be able to put their stake on things and keep control of what you take.

You’d just sat down on Donovan’s bed, watching some television program regarding communism when he decides to call out from the other room. Muffled and hardly comprehensible, of course, so you don’t really pay much mind to Donovan when the reporter goes on about Joseph Stalin’s legacy.

“--heard me or not but-- _Christ_ , turn that bullshit off!” Donovan suddenly cries out as he finally meanders near the doorway, cradling a headset against an ear. 

If he intends to step any further into the room he doesn’t do so, trapped in place by the length of the coiled cord already stretched across his desk. Disheveled with a loose tie and terrible posture as always--you have a hard time believing this is the same man who graduated from Princeton University _summa cum laude_ yet always preaches about _personal hygiene_.

“No, it’s nothing of much needed attention,” Donovan dryly informs through the headset microphone. You can physically _see_ the distasteful grimace gracing his expression upon hearing the word _communism_ being spewed out by the television again. “Just our sweetheart watching some commie _cocksuckers_ on the television, though.”

There’s a faint, sarcastic quip of _that’s not good_ on the other end, and Donovan seems content to agree. It’s not like he can reach over to turn it off himself--he’d take the whole comms device and drag it across the room if he really wanted to disconnect the call and fuck up his equipment. Would it really be worth the effort to shield you from influence?

You decide to play God and smile sweetly over your shoulder at him, watching his expression twist into a further grimace. The fact that communism even exists must bring him literal pain, and you try not laugh aloud.

“--yeah, sure. Give her something to do and get off her ass. I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to see her. She’ll be right over, no worries.”

This has your attention, standing to finally switch off the television so Donovan can think straight without the holy ghost of communism lingering over your shoulder.

He’s more than elated--something you’re sure he’s going to be using for conversation during dinner if you make it back with Lincoln. Business is business, though, and Donovan’s lighting a cigarette at the door frame as he shoots you a cheeky grin around it.

“You a little fan of an old school, silver fox Italian mobster who needs medical attention?”

You’re already reaching for your bag and jacket, speaking as you do. “I might have a thing for older gentlemen, yeah.”

“Sugar daddies are good things to have in your back pocket, I hate to agree. They’re all the rage nowadays.”

“Is that permission for me to fuck Vito Scaletta?”

And he laughs aloud, blowing out a heavy breath of smoke. “You’d break our hearts, doc.”

You shoot him a look full of playful pity, closing the distance across the room since he’s tethered to the spot and hasn’t made any move to put his toys down. Even if it’d been hard to believe this man could graduate _summa cum laude_ anything, there’s certainly an air of charm you’ve grown to admire and adore from him.

So you smile, cupping his cheek with gentle sweetness. Where Lincoln’s face is more structured and squared, Donovan brings a soft roundness, a handsome bit of pudge to that striking face. You’ve never told him that before, of course; as if you have reason to stroke his already prideful ego any further.

“I’ll be right back then. And I promise I won’t fuck Vito.”

He draws a hand up to grip your wrist comfortingly, laughter full of teeth as his warm palm keeps you in place for just a moment longer.

* * *

“It’s a nice thought, kid, but I think I can manage. Tough as fuckin' nails I tell ya.”

Even with Lincoln’s insistence, Vito Scaletta is ever the same stubborn man who thinks he can stand upright with a bruised rib or three. Something you’re sure he can drown out with a few bottles, and you don’t rightly blame him if he intends to after this. He’s seated while Lincoln stays leaning against Vito’s desk, thick arms crossed over his chest and making small talk with the Italian mobster.

By the time you’re through the door, Vito’s already in the middle of another protest until he finally takes a good look at you.

“Sorry I’m late,” you breathlessly put out there, swinging around to shut the door with your back. “Hey, Lincoln. Mr. Scaletta, how are you feeling?”

All that _persistent_ declining of medical attention earlier seems to die shortly, and his three bruised ribs miraculously turn into five or six.

His arms are laid slack on the armrests of his good chair, but he’s not looking frozen and locked in a freezer anymore. Still, it doesn’t hide the array of cuts and bruises on his face from quite an earlier ordeal, but even that doesn’t stop his mouth quick enough.

“Like I’m twenty years younger, doll, pleased to meet ya.”

Lincoln hides his snort behind a brief cough, meeting your gaze as you send him a wink before settling in. You can’t pretend like you didn’t catch the sharp scent of blood making your way past the restaurant and towards the back staircase. More, you were preoccupied thinking how ironic and cliché it is that Vito’s turf borders a pleasant view of the river, and the ever-present pungent odor of fish on a rainy day.

He’ll definitely be making some use of the river if those bodies lying in the restaurant are anything to go by.

You’re in the middle of fixing on your latex gloves, Lincoln rounding at your side as you briefly glance him over. A scuff here and there, but no present damage that you know of. That deep scar clawing against the side of his temple is healing considerably well, but you don’t expect any hair growth to continue there anytime soon. The cauterizing effect of live ammunition has some benefits, you suppose, but so do killers with bad aim.

As if reading your mind, Lincoln reassures you. “I’m alright, I promise.”

You’re fishing inside of your bag for a stethoscope. “I know. How’s your head feeling like? Any sharp pains or discomfort?”

He doesn’t want to impose or be troublesome. Like always. “Maybe a bit of a migraine.”

You scoff out a short laugh, pulling out a bottle of oxycodone and handing it off against his chest. “You’re such a liar. Two tablets every six hours, alright? And _don’t_ even think about mixing them with the bourbon back home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

God, he _knows_ all too well that it flatters you when he calls you things like that. Both him and Donovan--something you’re a little flustered to imagine them discussing you over. You shoot Lincoln a little shy look at his smirk before turning back onto Vito, who’s been so good and waiting patiently. About half an hour earlier he’d been screaming about slicing off somebody’s nuts while tied to a chair and locked in a freezer, spewing out all of the Italian curses he knows.

You kneel beside him where he’s seated, stethoscope resting around your neck and sphygmomanometer in hand. You’re a bit honored that Vito’s still watching you diligently, returning your smile. Somewhere, there’s a story about his mobster tales back even in your youth, this legendary made man from Empire Bay.

“I want to check your vitals, Mr. Scaletta, may I?”

He could be lecherous if he wanted to, but a man of his class, his age knows far more than that. “Vito, please, doll, it’s the most you can do for this old yet handsome motherfucker.”

You chuckle, reaching up to unbutton a portion of his blood-specked polo. Behind, you can hear Lincoln rattling with the pills as you brace the stethoscope against and above the left side of Vito’s chest, instructing him patiently with slow breaths and deep breaths. Another round of it steers towards his back so you can get a good listen, and all the while you’re aware of Lincoln trying to fish around for some semblance of a reasonable drink that isn’t the whiskey in Vito’s office.

“I think I have some water left in my bag,” you offer back helpfully, and Lincoln lets out a sheepish thanks as he fishes around inside.

After strapping the cuff and checking his blood pressure, he seems relatively healthy to your diagnosis in that aspect. If anything’s broken, anything internal that might need just that extra step out of your reach, there might be a problem. You’re sure he has his own doctors at his beck and call but you’re more or less sure this is an establishment of good faith that Lincoln and his associates look after their own.

You do check his ribs and his skin there’s a tad tender. The bruises will most definitely show, but it’s nothing compared to what will happen in the following days. Grecco. You won’t know him long enough to care what Lincoln and Vito decide for him.

Vito’s face is last. The cuts there are still bleeding to some capacity. You call for Lincoln to hand out anything you need from your bag, from your alcohol wipes to the bandages to cover the more serious lacerations compared to the others. The smaller ones will heal on their own--might as well not let them fester over time. Whatever lasting pain he may have, you leave him a bottle of acetaminophen for his troubles. 

“All done, Vito. _Molto bene_ , is that right?”

“Ah, sweetheart, you do this handsome motherfucker a kindness. _È così_ ,” Vito replies, smirking over at Lincoln. “Think I might have just gotten back the energy to introduce curbstomping to Grecco’s fuckin’ nuts.”

“Think you might just have to wait,” Lincoln responds, watching as Vito grasps your wrist as you stand to plant a polite kiss to the back of it in thanks. “Grecco won’t be stupid enough to walk out the front door waiting to get shot. I’ll need to give him a reason to.”

“Well, until then,” Vito lets your hand slide out of his fingers, readjusting himself to sit up straighter in his chair. “Lemme know how the plan goes. I ain’t gonna sit here witherin’ until he finally fuckin’ does.”

The first thing he reaches for, of course, is the whiskey on the side and pouring himself a glass, a second for Lincoln, and another that he hands off towards you, much to your surprise. It’d be impolite to turn down something so generous as sharing a drink with a man like Vito Scaletta, and you’re hurriedly stripping off your gloves to meet his glass.

“ _Salute_ ,” Vito toasts, clinking his glass and downing it in one fell swoop. All Italian, of course.

You meet Lincoln’s eye, tapping your glass against his with a smile.

“ _Vouloir, c’est pouvoir_ ,” you both toast, and down your drinks together in unison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you're working towards the trophy to flip all racket bosses and you fuck up on one _RIP_. Here's to two extra playthroughs to speed run, though!
> 
> Also I realize this is a bit lengthier than previous chapters, but I didn't want to split it into two either. So treat's on me. ;)
> 
> Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ for the all the kudos and support. Good to know that Mafia's getting some love out there!  <33


	4. Sly Devils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Someone’s still in practice, huh? How was it, cutie pie? Killed a few Marcano assholes for your boys?”

“How exactly did she contribute to Lincoln Clay’s underbosses during her time in New Bordeaux, Mr. Donovan?”

This never ending game of question after question surely doesn’t get old. And yet Donovan, by some fantastical feat of patience against the odds, is only humored and curious by the arrangement of them. The ashtray seated on the table is filled with nothing but cigarette butts and he’s already on his way to finishing another one.

Like he really has to think about it much, waving his hand somewhere to gauge his memory. 

“When Lincoln started handing out rackets, they kept the whorehouses running with a bit less PCP circulating through to prevent prostitutes from being taken advantage of. It was [Name]’s idea to offer examinations on the girls to make sure any venereal diseases could be weeded out and prevented. Strictly enforced policy but it did help point the finger at any asshole handing out syphilis to the girls. Contraceptives, birth control--you name it, she brought it.”

“And where exactly did she acquire these contraceptives from?” 

They already _know_ and yet Donovan can only roll his eyes; anything sounds better coming out of the mouth of a confession, from someone who has something to hide. Certainly does feel powerful when it’s admitted by someone like _him_.

He plays along anyway, like he had nothing to do with the ordeal at all. “She’d nicked a couple shipments of medical supplies on her way back from Vietnam. I swear to God, there were at least two crates full of nothing but condoms. Don’t rightly know what she’d been planning on doing with them initially but hey, it went somewhere, right?”

“But what about the treatments she had access to, Mr. Donovan? What did she do to people who were infected?”

A careless shrug. Another puff of his cigarette. “Treated them. Antibiotics, vaccines, anything she could do to help the ones that could be cured.”

“And how exactly did she acquire _those_ resources? I’m sure she didn’t find crates full of them, did she?”

“Nah.” Donovan waves at the smoke clouding around him, irritated more towards their words than the cloud itself. “You want me to say she broke into hospitals around New Bordeaux to get them, right? That it’s a criminal offense?”

His question hangs and lingers like an unwelcoming presence, something Donovan fully appreciates if it means getting them to squirm uncomfortably. “Well, no shit, assholes. That’s exactly what she did. And you wanna know how she did it?”

That stump of a cigarette lifts and toys between his lips, leaning back against his chair as he lifts a hand. Middle, ring, and pinkie curled into his palm with his forefinger and thumb extended. A childish _pew_ blows through his lips, recoiling back from the gunshot, adding a couple to further his point if it isn’t already understood.

And he laughs aloud, adjusting that cigarette butt between his fingers. “Administered an interesting dose of euthanasia if I do say so myself.”

The confession is met with a hard response, a raising voice as if the prospect itself is worse than what Sal Marcano intended for Lincoln’s family. “You’re admitting that she _did_ murder hospital staff, are we not mistaken?”

“Either you’re all tone _fucking_ deaf or you’re enjoying just hearing me say it again: she. Fucking. Killed them.”

Every word is punctuated with a finger tapping against the tabletop, and even then Donovan doesn’t seem so pleased by that account alone. 

“Did I also mention those cocksuckers were on Sal Marcano’s payroll? That he’d bought out that hospital for _his_ men, that they were leeching off everyone else’s fucking misery? Who turned away people who needed medical attention because they were fucking _black_ , or because they couldn’t afford a room for one night? Everyone down to the fucking _janitor_ were on Marcano’s payroll. If you ask me, she did us all a favor.”

There’s silence--silence that Donovan’s much more content in, if only it could get these assholes to _shut the fuck up_. 

“Don’t worry,” he continues, crushing his cigarette along another spent one in the ashtray. “I was surprised when I heard about it, too.”

He’s heard some crazy shit in his days. _Done_ a number of crazy shit that would question his position if he even belonged in the CIA anymore. A nurse running around gunning hospitals for supplies is something else entirely, yet tame in comparison to the things he’s seen and done in ‘Nam. 

Donovan’s not apologetic in the least.

* * *

As unsafe and uncaring of it is of Donovan to not react to the motel door opening, he really should take into account of rethinking his course of actions. Especially when he’s conversing with Lincoln in the midst of his makeshift office, sucking in a breath of his cigarette as he suddenly turns his attention to you standing in the middle of the doorway.

That cigarette hanging between his lips dangerously flops into the seat of his own lap.

“Jesus _Christ_ , what the fuck happened to you?”

Lincoln’s quick to turn on the dime, silence now hanging between your boys as the murmur of the television in the other room fills the air. At the time you’re not quite aware what precisely has their attention--only when you decide to drop a sturdy zip-up bag heavily to the ground does that seem to get them to hurriedly move.

Lincoln closes the distance first, his hands coming to rest against your shoulders, steering you to look him in the eye, but also to keep you in place. You don’t think you could be one enough to fight against him--he’s built like a fucking tank, of course. “You got blood on you, doc. _A lot_.”

Is that what all this fuss is about? You’ve been elbow deep in nothing but intestines and the works before and if _blood_ alone makes them squeamish...

Donovan’s in the back making a scene, patting hurriedly at his lap to rid of the burning ash resting there. By the time he’s able to stand upright Lincoln’s making work of your button-up, ivory fabric soaked in nothing but fresh blood still damp and sticking to your skin at the mere touch. There’s a thought lingering somewhere that he’s got quite the sleight of hand, undoing your buttons so quickly that the cool touch of air is almost foreign on your skin.

You realize Lincoln’s inspecting you, pushing the fabric of your soaked shirt off your shoulders and arms. No cuts, no bruises--nothing he can’t rightly see, but you don’t appear to be in any particular pain even when he’s hastily reaching for the button of your jeans.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” is all Lincoln says, tossing off your boots and jeans over to Donovan. Definitely more of an idea to burn them more so than take them to the laundromat. You’re being steered into the other room once again to occupy the functioning bathroom, Donovan having remodeled the other as a darkroom for developing his ever candid photos.

It’s strange hearing the sputter of the faucet, the way it grumbles through the pipes and empties out just a smidge of hot water into the bath. It’s not the first choice of a motel you’d pick and it goes to show just because of the running water, but it’s something. You’re only half-aware of Lincoln’s fingers gently sliding down your back, facing away from him as the weight of your bra snaps quietly. The straps glide past your arms and to the floor, just the barest breath of his fingertips meeting your hips and pulling the fabric there downwards.

The dip of water is therapeutic, and you’re not sure if you’ll ever be ready to shake off the memory of days going without showering in a jungle. Even if it isn’t entirely warm you can feel that stiff dryness against your skin peeling away and steeping that water in clouds of rolling pink. The faint scent of cheap motel soap bars and a hint of gasoline draws your attention away from your thoughts of today’s grab--it’d been successful, after all, if your survival and goods are anything to go by.

“You gonna tell me what happened?” 

Lincoln’s voice is calm, attentive. Skills he picked up out in the field. You’ve seen what he’s capable of with those hands, the same ones running softly up and down your arms to scrub off the filth of blood. Not your own, you’re sure he realizes. A splash of water and old, weathered scars are all that’s left among your skin.

You shoot a smile his way, watching attentively as his hands lather the soap across your collar and neck.

“I was running low on stuff. Oxycodone. Antibiotics. Penicillin. Birth control,” you tiredly reply, feeling an ache creeping between your shoulder blades. It hasn’t been _that_ long since you’ve fired a handgun, has it?

There’s a sense of endearment of how he has to kneel beside the tub to wash you down, dousing more water to clear your skin. “You runnin’ out of stuff? Didn’t think I could go out and get it for you myself?”

“You were busy stirring another shit storm out in the French Ward. I felt bad getting in the way of that. You want me to send you out with a shopping list next time?”

Despite the quite real possibility that you could have potentially died, it’s more than enough to garner Donovan’s attention, leaning up against the door frame with that same handgun leisurely in palm. A sweep of a wet rag catching specks of blood is more than enough of an answer for him.

“Wondered where my piece ran off to,” Donovan playfully points out, pressing the release to pull out the magazine. A quick pull of the slide and the bullet in the chamber’s ejected out with a profound _tink_ against the tiled floor of the bathroom. “You sly little devil, you.”

With a quick sweep of his eyes counting the bullets in the magazine, he let’s out a short whistle. “Someone’s still in practice, huh? How was it, cutie pie? Killed a few Marcano assholes for your boys?”

“Marcano?” Lincoln’s confusion is present in how he pauses in stroking another bar of soap against your thighs beneath the water. “He got his boys working at a hospital?”

“I’d heard a thing or two about that through the wire, yeah,” Donovan confirms, sliding the magazine back into his pistol, catching the safety before sliding it back into its place within his inside jacket. “Didn’t expect our darling here to go out and take care of it herself, though.”

You know Lincoln wants to protest. To keep you out of harms way, out of the iron sight of Sal Marcano unless he catch wind of what you’ve done. And he does until you’re quick on the gun, explaining that he can’t be doing this alone, that you’re doing exactly what needs to be done to keep New Bordeaux healthy and alive. Some sense of being a one man army must have convinced him otherwise for the past few weeks, but even your words seem to ease him.

“I know, and I know you can take care of yourself. Just, uh… keep us in the loop before you go out there, yeah?”

You can’t help but reach over and chuck him under the chin, laughing breathlessly as he finally reaches down to drain the tub. The warmth of a towel comes your way, patting dry the water against your skin as Donovan continues to watch from the door. In his hand is something else he’d fished out of your stolen goods, inspecting the box with a lazy glance before reaching over to place it on the sink counter.

It takes some convincing but you’re able to get them both out of the bathroom much to Donovan’s dismay. You’re very much aware it’s been some time since the three of you had been active participants in any sort of bedroom recreation--in fact, assisting Cassandra in her prostitution and pornography wards is much of a painful reminder of how long it’s been since anything has happened at all. 

You don’t know whether Lincoln and Donovan keep quiet because they don’t believe it’s an appropriate time--something you can wholly get on board with. It’d been more of an experiment, a curiosity needed to be satisfied overseas at first glance. A testing of waters that benefited all three; you recall Donovan claiming it to be a trend, a new sort of fad that’s slowly gaining traction. A massive middle finger to monogamy, more like.

The likely answer, however, isn’t that they’re waiting for the right time--but for _your_ consent.

And as you pat dry your face, a stack of clean clothes left on the toilet seat, you can’t help but notice that carton left near the sink faucet. A box you’d snatched in the thick of things, clutching for whatever supplies you could on the shelves at the hospital. Gingerly, your fingers turn to inspect the label itself, skimming over it quickly with knitted brows.

That creeping flush against your neck and making a beeline for your cheeks can’t be hindered quickly enough. The irony of you grabbing it for the intention of handing it off to one of Cassandra’s nightclubs is quickly tossed and trampled. You’d last seen Donovan with it, after all, and he doesn’t leave things without any other sort of reason.

_Combined oral contraceptive pill._

What an endearingly _artful_ way of asking for your permission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to post this a _lot_ sooner, but got caught up in, mmm, I don't know... being a Chicago native, it's quite something when your favorite team has just won the World Series.
> 
> ;) Here's to 108 years, motherfuckers.


	5. White Rabbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you're going to fall..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Need some tunes I was listening to while writing this? Have at it, comrades!
> 
> Jefferson Airplane - White Rabbit  
> Lana Del Rey - Freak  
> The Weeknd - Starboy  
> Sam the Sham & The Pharoahs - Lil' Red Riding Hood
> 
> Is smut coming? Are black holes really the most massive motherfuckers in the universe? Can anything travel faster than light to escape the event horizon?
> 
> Tune in next time to find out. B)

“Mr. Donovan, you said that you produced the drugs Lincoln Clay administered to the drinks of Olivia Marcano’s guests that day, is that correct?”

He shrugs, unbothered as always. “That’s what I said.”

“And where did you acquire the skills to do that?”

That laugh Donovan allows is quiet and soft beneath his breath. At least there’s something interesting going on here--something to glean from the records, things unseen and kept hidden beneath the wraps until noticed by the public eye. There’s not much he’s terrified to confess if the questions have any intention of cornering him into the room.

Reaching over, he pulls out another cigarette from his quickly emptying pack. “From Leverett, of course. Girl could cook up a mean batch of LSD. Not so much her home cooking, though.”

“So it would be safe to assume she learned this through her time working with you in Vietnam?”

Donovan’s eyes glance somewhere towards the ceiling, trying to get the blurry details correct and down to the letter. “About that timeframe. Maybe even before, I’m not entirely set on a date.”

“You mentioned a project earlier, Mr. Donovan... that used _hallucinogenic_ drugs--”

That realization on Donovan’s face is even enough to make him pause in lighting his cigarette. His hands are hanging, halting--glancing upwards to meet Senator Blake eye to eye. At first his expression is unreadable, a brick wall with no intention of letting any of these political assholes through. But when it dawns, when he knows _precisely_ what wants to be asked, he can’t help that smidge of a smirk from coming through.

It’s his turn to ask. “You wanna know if she knew anything about MKUltra, is that it?”

The senators are taut, uncomfortable. “No, Mr. Donovan. We want to know if she was directly _involved_ in MKUltra.”

Another careless toss of his shoulders. Irrelevant questions that needn’t any answers in the first place. What’s done is done. “She was, yes.”

“The details of her involvement?”

“As far as I know,” Donovan recounts, folding his hands on the desk as he leans forward, “MKUltra was trying to develop certain drugs to produce positive results during situations like interrogation. The furthest the spectrum goes is along the lines of mind-control, if you’re really feeling that bullshit.”

Those grainy, unsteady visions come back like some pipe dream. Those smiles, that blood-stained uniform, that easy way you’d been able to talk to the men in his platoon. Any other man wouldn’t believe the shit you’d done if they ever saw them.

He continues, steady, calm and cocky as always. “Yeah, sure, she used it on some NVA cocksuckers we captured. Can’t say it always worked but people sure do love to talk when they’re doped up on psychedelic drugs. Even used it domestically in our own country just to get some results before she was shipped out to see how it could perform.”

That confirmation is all the senators need to start murmuring among themselves. “If you agree she used this both domestically and on enemy soldiers, Mr. Donovan, then did she ever plan on using them on Lincoln Clay? On anyone else you claim she had treated? On _you_ for that matter?”

For the first time since he’s stepped foot in this committee room, John Donovan is silent. Profoundly silent. The type of silence to give when words alone can’t describe the utter fucking _stupidity_ of what’s been said.

And Donovan let’s them know that as clearly as he can. “You seriously expect me… to answer that?”

His voice is loud now, and every word he pronounces is slow just to let them catch up if they haven’t understood already. “You gonna make me piss in your morning coffee for urine samples? Even if she did try to drug us, I saw the results for myself. If that shit even worked a _fraction_ right--oh, buddy, she’d be sitting on a throne by now, and we’d be right at her fucking feet.”

The breath he sucks in of his cigarette is hard, furious as he calms his own nerves. And he laughs, on the brink of wanting to lose his composure by the audacity and weight of that question still hanging in his mind. “ _Christ_ , if it were that easy, all she’d have to do was tell Sal Marcano to shoot himself in the _fucking_ brain.”

By the silence again he’s sure they’re coming to another collective consensus, glancing over at each other before agreeing on something in complete quietude.

“...And that was the full extent of her involvement in the project?”

Back to calmness already, as it trying to stow away what they’d all been brainstorming on all this time. And they say that there’s no such thing as asking stupid questions.

Donovan nods, tapping off the excess ash. “For the record, yes. She was following direct orders from the CIA and I can confirm she was a registered medical personnel sent to me.”

It’s the truth. As hard as it is to believe, that something can get out of scope from his sight, it is. But it’s not like John Donovan would ever intend on admitting that, no.

“Whatever else she did on the side, I don’t have answers for you. Now, is there anything _else_ you’d like to ask?”

* * *

As steady as things can go in New Bordeaux, you’re genuinely surprised that your radio has been peacefully silent. The other day you’d been called down to Burke’s place to take care a few of his guys jumped by hired men from Marcano. A few days ago, there was a hysterical call of one of Vito’s men crying about his wife going into labor. Quite a few of those, actually--you wonder why _now_ is any good of a time to be having kids, but you’d answered that call happily regardless. 

Just yesterday you’d gotten a panicked call in the dead of night about one of the girls working at Perla’s suffering from a heroin overdose. In terms of what you could do alone, there wasn’t much by any standards--you’re a personal physician for Lincoln, not a one man army with access to life support or artificial respiration. And you’re not afraid to admit that you’d called Vito and his doctors to help out with the case, as the most you’d been able to do was make use of the naloxone you’d had on hand.

She’s doing well as far as you can tell from the last call earlier this morning. Can’t save everyone, it’s true, but you’re glad she hadn’t lost her life to something as serious as heroin gets. Giorgi Marcano initially put it into circulation in the Hollows, Donovan had informed you, but it’s not like you can just go out and have a donation center to pick them all up to dispose of.

But it’s quiet now. Peaceful. Exemplary radio silence. The only blurring sound is the fan going off on its highest setting in Donovan’s tac-center. The television’s set on mute and you’re left with nothing to do but lounge tiredly, lazily on the center of the bed. Boredom allows you to raise your hands to turn them over, study them and see the trimmed neatness of your nails. 

A scar here and there. Clean now but there’s a faint memory of dirt and mud caked between them amidst a humid jungle. Just the other day there’d been a new-born baby in those palms; another with you gripping the hand of a Perla prostitute and urging her to respond.

You let your arms drop, turning to rest quietly on your side towards the doorway to the tac-center. For once, you can say there’s nothing to do. As much as you’re sure Donovan would appreciate it, you’d rather not interrupt whatever he’s working on in there. The possibility of disrupting his train of thought, maybe something important for helping out Lincoln…

And just like that, the thought of him alone is enough to summon him to the doorway. With a cheeky grin, he winks over at you. “Hey, doc. Any reason why you’re not in Pointe Verdun helping one of Burke’s guys from choking on his own vomit?”

You laugh, watching as he comes from around the door and urges you to scoot over.

“No work today, I guess. No one’s called me since the update about that girl working at Perla’s.”

He kicks his shoes off and settles in with a loud, elated sigh, flopping enough that the bedsprings squeak. The warmth of him is all you need, turning on your side again to smile up at him. The only time you’re both in the bed together is when you’re trying to catch some shuteye late in the night.

“Used to seeing this bed empty and you coming in at four in the morning, digging a slug out of one of Vito’s mobsters,” he admits, arms behind his head as he glances up at the ceiling. “You don’t ever catch a break, I get it. Would be real shitty if someone decided to come in and ask for something now.”

No protest from you when he decides to scoot nearer, and you allow him to wrap his arms around your body to drag you closer. The touch of his face meeting your neck, pressing lazy kisses there is a sensation all-too familiar and what feels like ages ago. With a stifled, composed face you’re aware that he’s not doing much to elicit a reaction.

The only other reason he’s doing this is because _he’s_ the person who’s deciding to _come in and ask for something now_. And you’re sure that _something_ doesn’t include his suit on the floor and your panties in his desk drawer.

As appealing as that sounds, you’re not quite finished with your pills, listening to Donovan inhaling deeply at your neck.

“John?” you ask, stroking your palm lightly against the nape of his neck. All sweetness of him finding time to spend with you is lost in favor of densely bored accusation.

“Mm?” His voice is muffled, legs tangling with yours and rumpling the bed sheets.

“What do you want?”

You can literally hear the feign in his voice, yet he makes no move to pull back. “Nothing… just enjoying your company, your presence, your day off… how much love and _life_ you breathe into me…”

Rolling your eyes and you know he doesn’t have to see to expect it.

“...Also, I need you to help me cook up those drugs you were working on during the project.”

“...Why?”

You’re suddenly met with him towering above you, tie draped against your chest where his arms are keeping him upright. “In a hypothetical and controlled situation, I’d like to see what the effects of government-grade LSD can do to a wealthy, white family in mourning.”

Right. Lincoln had made quick work of Remy Duvall and now Olivia Marcano’s hosting the party with her dead partner’s closed casket available for viewing.

Your eyebrows knit together, making no move beneath him. “I’ve told you before, John, it didn’t work.”

“No, it didn’t. But they _did_ get us some results, right? And who said anything about using them for _that_ when I wanna see a high society funeral doped on the most psychedelic concoction you can make?”

“...Christ, John. You don’t make it easy, do you?”

And he’s back to being the same old Donovan, giggling to himself as if he’s never left prep school to save his life. “Is that how you want me to be? Easy?”

“Well, if getting you undressed for me back in that medical tent in Laos was _easy_...”

If you intend to offend him, it’s barely a noticeable scratch. To appease you, he draws back and pretends to be. “If we’re on the same page, doc, I recall I had to keep _you_ quiet back in that tent.”

Oh. Yes, that. With his hand over your gasping mouth, pleading with him _more_ , and the eager way his hips had been noisily slapping against your skin. How could you ever forget?

With a scoff, you playfully shove him off of you with a smile hard to hide, hearing his own laughter as you turn to sit on the bed. Hair tousled and breath sighing, you nod. “Fine. How much do you need? Need enough so they trip, not OD.”

And he details you of those plans inside of the tac-center, running down the details despite the role you know you’ll be good for. Just something for him to discuss, bounce some ideas off of until Lincoln can get back to go over it personally.

It’s a lengthy conversation of videotaping the entire ordeal to see just how it turns out, until you decide to radio in Lincoln to check up on him. Coming close to nine, you’re sure he’s already making his way back to the motel to crash for the night.

The sound of his pleasantly deep voice, tired but happy to see you is a delight on its own.

“Wanted to check in on our one man army,” you tease, sitting on the edge of Donovan’s desk. The subtle touch of his fingertips creeping up your exposed legs from your shorts is met with you swatting at them.

Lincoln’s chuckle is low and warm. “ _One man army’s still in one piece. How’s your day off? Heard the line’s been quiet today._ ”

You shoot Donovan narrowed eyes. “Decent enough, I guess, having nothing to do.”

“ _You alright? I saw those pills on the sink earlier, you comin’ down with something?_ ”

Oh. Well… “No! No, hah, I’m not… they’re, uh…” You clear your throat, looking away when Donovan glances at you curiously. “They’re birth control.”

“ _Oh? You got somethin’ waitin’ for me when I come back?_ ”

“I’m not even finished taking them yet, don’t get eager.”

The sound of a door slamming is enough to let you know that he’s on his way. “ _I’m sure Donovan is, right?_ ”

You snort, watching Donovan resume his task of putting together spare parts to assemble a wire tap. “Don’t make this about just him. I know you and him have probably been talking about it ever since I got back.”

“ _Guilty as charged._ ”

And you can’t help but smile. “We’ll see you soon? Maybe pick up some dinner on the way back?”

You try not to laugh at that hopeful look on Donovan’s face, relieved that he doesn’t have to step foot outside to get it himself. Tuning back, you don’t have to see it but he is too--hear it in his words, his laugh, the rev of an engine. 

“ _Yeah, yeah, sure. I’ll see you both soon._ ”


	6. G.I. Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s no wrong way to say _fuck you_ as sophisticated and professionally as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's smut. Not really relevant in terms of plot but more of a thanks for all of you lovelies who are enjoying this so far.
> 
> I don't always write smut, but when I do it's 3:00 am and I need to wake up at 7:00 am for class.
> 
> Thanks for the fantastic feedback and kudos, as always! <3

An interesting question arises midway through the committee--something only uncovered when some semblance of these dots are connected, as disorganized and haphazard as they may be. During a break between sessions, Donovan had left the room and the cameras had been shut off for the time being until the next session becomes available. Meaning it offers him plenty of time to buy another couple packs of Newports, all the while preparing himself for the next so-called dog-and-pony bullshit.

When he returns back to the session and his seat, however, the next lineup of cross-examination is another downward spiral of agony. If anything to do with torment and poker faces go so far with someone like a former CIA handler, someone who’s seen far too much and loved his _job_ even more so. Who’s to say that he doesn’t now, the moment when Senator Blake flaps those lips of his into the next question?

The pronunciation is slow, careful, but nonetheless accusatory, as if intending to fluster him. “Mr. Donovan… what was your... _relationship_ with Nurse Leverett?”

A pause, but not enough to warrant any unwanted discomfort from the Vietnam veteran. Donovan looks every part of serious, somber and innocent. 

The moment he opens his mouth, however, slowly delivers another story. “If you wanted to ask if we fucked, you can just say it. Because we did. Multiple times.”

A collective murmur of embarrassment, outrage, the fact that Donovan won’t shut his _mouth_ floods the room in a mere second.

And yet he continues, face subdued as ever, voice even louder just to further embarrass them among their flustered complaints. “In fact, both Lincoln and I fucked her. Together. Simultaneously. At once. Multiple times.”

Senator Blake appears to be the only one in some pretense of composure, appalled and it says so with the way he’s holding his hand against his chest. “Mr. _Donovan…!_ ”

“I don’t have enough hands to count how many times we fucked, but _Goddamn_ if we couldn’t make a few home videos out of it.”

“Mr. Donovan, this is _highly_ unnecessary and _inappropriate…!_ ”

And he’s enjoying himself so much if that smug expression is anything to go by, his cigarette dangling between his fingers as he leans back against his chair.

“You’re the one who asked, senator, don’t put this on me. I take it the only women you’ve all be able to fuck charged you for their services, am I right?”

If Donovan’s on thin ice he might as well tap dance as long as he can to enjoy the full extent of his stay. There’s no wrong way to say _fuck you_ as sophisticated and professionally as he can. The last thing he needs is a lecture, not from someone who hasn’t seen what he’s seen.

The committee itself looks highly uncomfortable, avoiding his gaze and fidgeting in their seats with their twiddling thumbs. Some look flustered, peeved, offended beyond belief. As if Donovan hadn’t looked into their files beforehand, had listened in to some very interesting things these men have been having about their wives with other married women. Curious what people can be so defensive towards until you dangle a piece of blackmail in front of their eyes.

As if the revelation crossing their minds is anything of much surprise--he figured it’d been obvious the moment he set forth to your defense. It wouldn’t be safe or smart to assume at first glance, sure, but they _did_ ask…

“Mr. Donovan, we are trying to--to _ascertain_ if her relationship with you and… and apparently _Lincoln Clay_ now had any motives in--!”

“Crimes of passion?” Donovan laughs, lifting his cigarette up to his lips. “That’s a new one. A _good_ one. But not the right one.”

* * *

With good reason, Donovan’s complaints about the lack of air conditioning is much needed now. On your chest, naked hips raised as you’re in the middle heaving for as much breath as you can despite the much stuffy and humid air of a hot summer New Bordeaux can offer. The bed sheets are in shambles, your thighs are rubbed something _raw_ and your tightly gripping fingers around the fabric beneath you is trembling in your hold.

And you know that things are just getting started.

That rough palm skimming against your back is met with some weight leaning over and against you. Heavy, but even in this overwhelming heat he’s feeling it too. The discarded military jacket is left hanging on the back of a chair, a chair that’s currently occupied by a CIA operative seated upon it. Donovan’s legs are planted on the floor but there’s no mistaking that lazy way his legs are parted--or his hand unzipping his trousers and palming his hardening cock.

Your cheek is pressed against the mattress, meeting Donovan’s roving eyes where you can’t see--to where your legs are spread, finding the view more than pleasant to what you did to Lincoln’s now soaking fingers. Before you can stop that hitch in your throat, Lincoln’s hands are already stroking his fingers against your sensitive wet folds. Watching with unbidden lust to the soft plead you let out and the way your thighs clench together. He’ll only give you a moment to breathe, you know it all too well; it really has been too long, a shared time in a musty mattress together overseas, and with how long you’ve spent apart from them…

With unsuspecting strength, Lincoln’s palm playfully meets the sensitive flesh of your rear, eliciting a cry that even has Donovan chuckling. The CIA operative’s tie is loose, his pants even more slack as his fingers curl around his length and lazily stroke himself further to life. Even at this angle you know it’s unmistakable--and you know what he likes to do best. He’d always let Lincoln and you enjoy yourselves first, and it’s his own pleasure of watching you two do it.

On shaky knees you shoot a frivolous glare over your shoulder at Lincoln, his wife beater’s neck soaked in sweat from the weather’s heat, and crawl further up onto the bed. When you move to turn on your back he’s quick to stop you, your head turning questionably over your shoulder until you’re met in a heated, open-mouthed kiss instead.

He’s massive--in more ways than one. The way his body encompasses you, bringing that much more heat and friction in an already unforgiving climate. You’re on your hands and knees and you can feel that much needed press of his crotch against your backside, thick and promising and you’re groaning into his mouth. Those hands of his are ever gentle but even now there’s a self-restraint you beg of him to prowl, to leave those wonderful bruises till tomorrow morning as a lovely reminder.

It’s why you can feel this stoking fire trembling between your thighs when his large, thick hands slide upwards beneath your shirt, dragging along your stomach and pushing the cup of your bra over your breast. In the haze of your mind the sound of Lincoln’s soft groans, the way his palm roughly and easily cups your breast, you can hear Donovan’s breath hitching. Almost as if he’s panting, losing his breath by just the sight of your pleasure alone--a teasing pinch of your nipple being rolled and squeezed between Lincoln’s fingers is almost mind-numbing.

The kiss is hungry, teeth and scorching breaths clashing until you realize Lincoln’s reaching down to hurriedly unzip himself. The weight of him, hot and heavy and pressing against your thigh is ravishing--even more so when you suddenly break from the kiss with a surprised whimper of him pushing himself between your folds. Lincoln’s slow in entry, the head of his cock pushing and stretching and you can feel the fucking _thickness_ of him inside of you, your nails dragging against the bed sheets with enough force to potentially tear.

And he’s whispering against your ear, the crown of your head, digging his face into the side of your neck as you take him in. It’s no easy task and he’s whispering that he knows you can take it--another inch and you nearly lose your breath. He’s not even in all the way and you feel so _full_ , so tight and loving the way he slowly slides back out and explores a deep thrust.

 _Fuck_ , you feel that one--and you can’t stop yourself from squeezing around him when he does it again, cries spilling from your lips as Lincoln starts a steady pace for you to adjust. He’s delving deeper now, feeling him already going so far as to bottom out, and you can hear that filthy yet arousing sound of him fucking you. Your breasts are bouncing with each pull of your hips down onto his cock, feeling weak enough that you’re down on your forearms and elbows, his skin slapping against yours and the worn bedsprings groaning. 

Sounds that bounce and echo against the shoddy motel walls and you could care less if the walls are paper thin; in the back of your mind you’re more interested in how stimulating Donovan must find this all, the way his hand is pumping faster around him until he’s suddenly slowing down to stand.

You’re far too distracted, Lincoln’s palm coming to press against your stomach to help keep your hips angled for him. Your teeth are gritting painfully tight, eyes squeezing shut from the stretch of his thickness and how he’s pounding into you that you barely notice the dip of the mattress. Not until Lincoln’s pressing a deep thrust into you and keeping still, allowing Donovan to slip above you. 

With sex-hazed eyes you’re anything but clear-minded, noticing his white undershirt and striped boxers before meeting the CIA operative’s gaze as he moves you to comfortably be against him. Lincoln’s still behind, thrusting slowly as you’re now face to face with Donovan’s clothed cock while nestled between his bent knees, and he catches your attention by cupping your cheek.

Donovan’s just as far gone as you both are--Lincoln’s back to his deep, quick pace and you’re trying to concentrate on the words forming on Donovan’s mouth, his thumb drawing against your bottom lip. With shaky hands you know exactly what to do, bouncing back and forth against Lincoln’s thrusts to pull down Donovan’s boxers.

And he licks his lips when you do, leaning down and dragging his shirt up against his front. Having Lincoln behind you only pushes you three that much closer together; Donovan’s breath catches between a hiss and a curse when your wet tongue laps against the underside of his cock resting against his stomach. The head of his cock is wet and you’re reminded of similar memories when you taste him. Those eager thrusts you meet with Lincoln causes you to miss catching the head of Donovan’s cock once, twice, until you finally capture him with an eager suck.

That hand tangling through your hair is just as eager, your breathless moans shooting straight through his veins like some hard-hitting drug. Hearing Lincoln fucking you and listening to you take your pleasure with a mouthful of nothing but his length--he curses, fingers tugging softly against your hair in an attempt to restrain himself from pushing you down any further. You’ve already got enough reason to feel overwhelmed and Lincoln’s there to soothe you, his lips kissing hotly down the back of your neck, squeezing handfuls of your ass just to hear you groan desperately around Donovan again.

You’re trying, taking and lapping as much of Donovan as you can, but Lincoln’s hips are overpowering and you’re suddenly crying out. Louder, whimpering and all, hands clenching the bed sheets, at Donovan for some semblance of an anchor. Your breaths are harsher, letting Donovan’s length go with a slick pop as you feel yourself coming to orgasm.

But even in your fever Lincoln’s demanding, _dominant_ even. His broad chest coming to lean down and mold against your back, a hand curling gently yet firm enough around your neck to focus your attention on his voice against your ear. His own breath is hot and heavy, labored from humping against you--and yet your eyes are meeting Donovan’s hazy blue ones as Lincoln forces you to.

“You can take him,” comes Lincoln’s voice roughly, almost as if he has to _growl_ that out, and hearing him speak alone is clenching yourself tightly around his cock. “I’ve seen you, put your mouth around him again.”

Fucking _fuck_ , you’re so fucking _close_. With a heady, earnest nod you’re losing your breath, gasps amplified with that hand around your throat until it draws back to find anchor at your hips. Donovan’s surprise isn’t hidden--not when your hand suddenly reaches around to draw his cock back upwards, allowing you to eagerly swallow him down. Your hand fondles, strokes as you suck at him, groaning at the feeling of him inside of your mouth until it’s nothing but a mindless rhythm back and forth.

You’re more than overwhelmed, more than pleased and ready to feel this all by tomorrow. Donovan’s panting breathlessly, hand reaching down to massage the back of your neck but urge you to take him down, drawing closer to his own edge. He does nothing to hide his pleasure, his groans, and you love the way his neatly done hair is now falling out of place and sticking stray strands against his forehead.

It’s heavy and overpowering when you finally do come. Your thighs clenching, crying out against Donovan and Lincoln’s thrusting still, trying to let those tremors subside even as he follows suit with you. The warmth of him filling you, spilling inside of you is satisfyingly stimulating as he grunts and pours out his heady groans. Your skin is sticky, too warm for this heat, and it’s too much that you have to release Donovan once more just to rest your cheek against his abdomen.

That slow buzz simmers down, and you’re left gasping for breath against Donovan while hearing his winded laugh. Lincoln’s chuckling himself, stroking your back gently to help ease you through your orgasm, pulling out from your dripping folds. You’ll feel it for sure, you know--but you’re also much aware of Donovan still waiting for his own patient release.

It takes a moment but you want to do this, do it for _him_ and Lincoln knows it. On quivering limbs you’re already trying to reposition yourself, Donovan wasting no time in trading spots. Before you can get settled on your back, Lincoln seats himself so you’re laying against his chest and lap, allowing him some impression of control as his hands lazily palm against your heaving breasts.

You don’t have to wait long at all, little pleasant shocks still subsiding from your last orgasm. Donovan’s quick to shoot you a little grin, his hands resting against the back of your knees to spread you open for him. There isn’t much warning and you’re glad that he didn’t--you’re groaning aloud still, elbows bending to grasp against Lincoln’s thick forearms for support as Donovan slips his cock inside you with one fluid motion.

And he’s relentless. Hungry. Needy. He’s pulling off his shirt, grasping it between his shoulder blades and over his head and pushing his boxers down further, anything to allow him to seek release within you. You’re a crying mess, hearing that wonderful, hushed filth coming from Lincoln’s lips--that you should look at how Donovan’s fucking you, that he’s going to enjoy finishing inside of you just like he did. One of Lincoln’s hands reaches down, toying and teasing your swollen clit as Donovan’s cock continues to thrust eagerly into your dripping folds.

And you’re seeing some fucking magnificent stars--throat raw and pleasured tears peering out of the corner of your eyes as Lincoln murmurs that you’re going to come again. Donovan’s more than prepared to agree, leaning down hurriedly as Lincoln draws his hand back, allowing the blue-eyed man to kiss you urgently in a hot, open-mouthed kiss.

A taste of cigarette, bourbon, something you’ve all got in common. Lincoln’s palms are warm and welcoming against your breasts, fondling them gently as you cry out against Donovan as you come for another time that night, feeling Donovan’s heavy thrusts as he finally spills himself inside of you. His fingers are squeezing against the underside of your knees, your thighs, heaving for a long moment until he finally pulls out his softening cock and pulls back from your kiss with drowsy, satisfied eyes.

You can feel that prominent, hot drip between your folds but even that isn’t enough to hide your shy, tired laugh, leaning back comfortingly against Lincoln’s body. Even in the heat you don’t seem to mind, eyelids fluttering when Donovan let’s out a breathless, boyish chuckle before leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your lips before flopping over to his side of the bed. His body must feel heavy--heavy yet satisfied, and you could say Lincoln would agree.

Lincoln behind you is playful as ever but even now you’re sure he’s far too tired to move so much a muscle. A quick kiss against the side of your head from him is enough of a reminder that he’s always watching for your well being, and you smile against him when he does. With ease and with what few bits of strength you have left, you drag him down into the bed with you as you settle into the middle of the mattress, Lincoln and Donovan now on either of your flanks. 

The three of you stare lazily, yet pleasantly up towards the ceiling, hearing that low murmur of traffic outside of the motel and the television becoming white noise.

You don’t know which of you knocks out first, but there’s nothing more comforting than having your limbs tangled between theirs.


	7. The Other Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “…You wanna start explaining where the _hell_ you’ve been?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [finger guns] mostly about _yo_ sweet ass _kicking_ some ass. **featuring murder, ptsd, bits of graphic violence, drug use, and racial slurs.** time to kick it into high gear, boiz.
> 
> also delays because semester's going ape shit with finals coming up! and as always, thank you so, so much for all the reviews and kudos. <33

**Excerpts from an interview and documentary  
with Father James Ballard…**

_We’ve all done things… we don’t quite long to think of in hindsight. She’d told me, “Father, my mother wanted me to become nun. I’d barely hit my fifth birthday, Father, and she’s already got the whole world out for me.”_

_Came from a small little town in New York, Woodstock I think. Not a family with a lot of money, not a family that wanted to put their little girl through higher education. She told me she did though, she’d gone through a nursing program. Graduated in… oh… I don’t know… 1960? 1961? I don’t quite remember._

_Military was still takin’ in nurses, freshly graduated nurses. She told me she’d shipped out to ‘Nam in 1962… left her mother, her father, her brother. Just the same as anyone else… and finished her tour in the summer of 1968._

_I don’t… I don’t think she wanted to tell me… what she did. Not what she did out there, I know. I know what it’s like. Seein’ your own men die. Doin’ what you have to do to protect the ones you love. Takin’ a life, playin’ God. I could see it. That look on her face. The kinda look you give when you stare off--the thousand-yard, they call it. She’d told me she didn’t wanna be no nun, that she could do more than recite a couple psalms from a book._

_Every other day in the week she’d come to check up on me. But she told me once, “Father, I prayed every day of my life out there.”_

_I asked her, “What for? What could you pray for? Who are you praying for?” She said, “Myself. Myself, all that time, every damn time. And I still am.”_

_…It… unsettled me. Reminded me, of… of me. Wanted to ask her if she wanted to talk about it, relive it just this once so she could come to terms. Accept what she’s done. Redeem herself. “It’s not too late,” I’d told her. “You could still take up faith, you already have all this time. There’s always room in this church for you.”_

_She told me no. Not for her. That she can still help, she can redeem herself in another way--with what? By helping Lincoln? John Donovan? What they did to Sal Marcano and any man taking his money?_

_All I’d seen then… was this little girl. This little girl who could still be convinced that she’s got some good left in her. She’d… she was the one who’d been tryin’ to help Lincoln. Said she could’ve gotten him a job at that California shipyard with her brother. She wouldn’t be shipped out months later after him, that’s why he stayed, for Sammy and Ellis, too._

_I still pray for that girl. Wanted to guide her through those demons, that dark room of her every fear. Redemption through revenge, loyalty… what she’d seen out in her time. Lincoln found family out there, found it in her, too. It terrifies me… terrifies me to know what she found instead. Because I still don’t know, I just hope… she’s found a way to leave that room._

_Find her own light… and come to terms._

* * *

The aesthetic, flimsy curtains covering the underside of the bed are shoved none-too gently aside. On the nightstand is a radio, crackling with white noise. The television is off for once. The ceiling fan is swinging, swinging, swinging until it’s nothing but a lost rhythm against the quiet sound of pencil against paper in the tac-center.

And you’re on your hands and knees, reaching beneath the bed for the crushed, olive drab duffle bag pressed against the worn bedsprings.

No infantry patches. No medals. Just dust, dragging it from the underside of the bed against the long-stained carpet. No movement or acknowledgement from Donovan in the other room, probably too fixated on listening into the wiretap, going over recordings and jotting down notes. On your knees your fingers search for the zipper, pausing just a moment when the radio crackles once, twice. A breath. Another press, and finally a voice, timid, feminine, unsure, and certainly tinged with Cajun.

“ _...Is this… this is the doctor? It’s, um… it’s me. You know? From Perla’s the other week? When you… when you saved me?_ ”

As if there’s any reason for you to forget--forget the way she’d been nearly lifeless, clinging to a threadbare ray of hope. Her loose, limp fingers in your urging hold, the way you’d opened her eyes to see those dilated pupils. The site of injection lacing her arm like a cry for help. You pause longer than you should have, staring at the now silent radio, before reaching over to snatch it to your lips.

“I remember you, Sherry,” you reply gently after pressing the button, slowly and quietly dragging the zipper undone beneath you. “How are you feeling?”

Genuinely, you’re surprised that she decided to call you back at all. Some of the girls down at Perla’s had informed you that she’d gone back to working soon after, if not a bit shaken up more so than usual. What you’d taken away from that, as well as most of the other workers at Perla’s nightclub, was a woman still suffering from experiencing that circumstance.

“ _I’m… I-I’ve been good, thanks_.”

Faded olive drab comes unwound, your hands peeling back the fabric as your palm connects with a fresh uniform. Untouched in what feels like ages, sparking memories of hot winds fluttering beneath a helicopter blade. Even still your eyes are somber, voice comforting as your fingertips draw against the bounded threads. This _thing_ that has represented so many battled emotions but the last hopeful line of life. That bounded bridge from this life to the next should you allow them that mercy to cross.

“Sherry?” you call her name out, hoping to ease her trembling voice. Fingers sliding beneath the freshly clean uniform, spotless and untouched to the elements of napalm and guts. Beneath the uniform peeks a grisly one. One that’s been washed countlessly, over and over, but has been ever obstinate to rid of the faded, old bloodstains. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

Ever quiet, only the _scrchsrch_ of Donovan taking his diligent notes. Maybe even silent enough for you to hear that painfully annoying drip of the leaky faucet in the bathroom. White noise, another shaky breath against a radio you’re sure is being clutched tightly against her chest.

“ _Doctor, I… I gotta tell you somethin’. But please don’t tell Mr. Clay, please…_ ”

A brief thought that Donovan’s potentially tapping into _your_ radio conversation is warily regarded, but you don’t hesitate, voice promising, certain. “Of course, Sherry. Patient’s confidentiality, I swore my oath.”

She seems unsure of this at first, clear in the way she presses once, another time, before finally coming to an answer with a shaky sigh. “ _O-Okay… I… I know I should’ve told you this as soon as I got back up on my feet, I know. But… what happened that night… doctor, it wasn’t me, please…_ ”

Did she mean it wasn’t her because of the effects of heroin? Or…?

Your hand draws back from the faded uniform, bumping against a weathered bible. Somewhere, if you dig far enough through the bag, should be a complimentary rosary. “...It wasn’t you who injected yourself, was it, Sherry?”

And she’s breathing in a harsh breath, pitched as if she’s trying to stifle herself from drawing attention. “ _Please, doctor… please, I didn’t know, he… he gave it to me, I said **no** …_” 

Nothing, not even her hand can stop that weak sob on the other end. “ _He tried to kill me, doctor, he tried..._ ”

“Who?”

“ _I don’t remember, I-I can’t--_ ”

“Sherry,” you calm her, voice steady, hard beneath your words. “His name. I need it.”

“ _...H-He called himself Dale, ma’am. Wh-What are you gonna do?_ ”

Trembling. You know that fear in her voice so well. Have remembered it so clearly behind an iron sight. Your hand digs beneath the uniforms and baubles until you finally grasp upon a heavy, slim and dark drilled tube. It’s slightly worn but polished, and is in dire need of a companion to silence its gunshot.

“And do you know where he could possibly be?”

“... _I think… that night, I’d been in the French Ward. I think he’d taken me home, dumped me back near Perla’s. L-Left me to die, doctor. Back in Les Dames Rouges. Some girls say they’ve seen him all over but it's always here he’s comes back to._ ”

“Do you have a friend at _Les Dames Rouges_ I could speak to, Sherry? Would it be alright if I told her what happened? I need any help I can get. I can stop him before any of your girls are next on his list.”

It’s almost worrisome when Sherry becomes distraught, her voice pitching higher. “ _Y-You mean kill him? You’re going to…?_ ”

One glance towards Donovan’s tac-center is all you need, rising to stand after packing your pristine, ironed-out Class B uniform. “He tried to kill you, Sherry. If he tries to kill me, would you want that? Do you want me to get killed because of him?”

“ _N-No! No, ma’am, I’m… my girlfriend’s name is Valerie, she’s in charge of working the rooms. Please… be safe, doctor, I don’t--I can’t be responsible if you die, this--_ ”

You toss the bag and suppressor onto the bed, bringing the radio up to your lips one more time. “I’ll be back, Sherry. Let Valerie know I’m coming. And in the meantime, don’t respond to this frequency until you hear back from her, alright? Doctor’s orders.”

And turned off and tossed that onto the bed too, meandering slowly into the tac-center soon after. Donovan’s back is turned dangerously away from the opened doorway and he’s scribbling away furiously still, headphones covering whatever intention he has of having his concentration stripped away. Regardless, even he turns his head a moment upon glancing at your shadow on the wall, looking over his shoulder, glasses framing his eyes.

And Donovan’s pistol is resting peacefully on his desk.

Before he can move to slide a cup off his ear, you’re eager to stop him, rushing forward and grasping his wrist. Stooping down a bit to steal a quick kiss on that confused face, you tell him breathlessly, “Got a call to answer. I’ll be right back, okay?”

He looks slightly lost in translation, not even provided a chance to see you off as you make your leave with a quick kiss you blow over your shoulder.

Even then, he doesn’t quite notice how much more vacant his desktop appears.

* * *

Valerie is cooler, calmer, and much more on board with your plan than Sherry could ever be. But even then in those thigh-high stockings and laced fabric you know Valerie would love nothing more than to be the one dealing the killing blow, courtesy of a six-inch stiletto through Dale’s skull. She’d graciously accepted you into _Les Dames Rouges_ , and true enough to its motto, there were plenty of _girls, girls, girls._

There’s rooms upstairs that some patrons like to rent out for a quick session or so. And sometimes customers like to put a price, some sort of appointment for meeting a favored girl. With positive fortune or not, it’s Valerie’s name with a price on it--and she’s not opposed to the idea at all when you proposition her with a plan.

She’s crossing her arms, smooth, dark skin accented by that shimmering light of a cigarette between her fingers. Leaning back against the room she’ll be occupying, studying with mild ruse as you lift your arm to glance at the watch strapped to your wrist. It’s certainly not an embellished piece, but the price on it could quite quickly rival one given its origin and function. 

Days of timing heartbeats, how long Lincoln and Donovan would take to return back to the safety you know of. Through mud and blood, to a simple joke of reflecting glaring sunlight across the room into Donovan’s eyes in the middle of a debriefing.

He’ll be here soon. Late to most of his appointments but you suppose that’s one for the better. Valerie’s standing watch, back pressed against the closed door, cigarette drifting something deep and somber against the dimly lit room. Studying with great curiosity as you toss your bag into the wardrobe, casually fitting on the suppressor with more ease she cares to take notice of. Blue latex gloves don your hands, contrasting against the dark gunmetal illuminated by the red neon hearts hanging on the walls.

“What if he finds out you’re here?” she poses, not to discredit what you plan in any way.

You smile her way, kneeling down to the spacious, curtain-covered underside of the rather cramped bed. “Then you better duck. Preferably to the left.”

If she feels any safer about the certainty you’re already moving to slide beneath the bed. Nothing extraordinary--dark, an odor of lingering palettes that you’re inclined to ignore. If all decides to go unwell you’re sure there’ll be darker stains to drip through the mattress instead. 

With a slow breath, facing upwards to those worn, dusty springs is a welcoming thought of Saigon. Between trembling leaves of coconut palm trees, untouched packs of cigarettes handed off from one palm to another. The way your military-issued boots had noticeably become that much lighter, unlaced from the heat of monsoon. Trouser legs rolled to mid-calf, shirt unbuttoned. _U.S. ARMY_ above your left breast pocket and _LEVERETT_ on your right. A memory of weight in those pockets--two medical scissors on either side, pens and markers hanging in your left sleeve.

Like some strike of lightning, scorching away those sepia dreams in distilled clarity. Thoughts that feel like they were once fantasy, imaginable and untouched. That blistering monsoon haze, a gunshot. There’s noise in the background but it’s white, unclear, there’s so much _blood_ soaking the dry dirt beneath dusty, worn boots. Another gunshot. Another, another, until 9mm shell casings are clattering and bouncing to the soil and all that’s left, all that you can remember despite the soundless void is the desperate _clickclick_ of an emptied magazine.

The last thought you have ends with thick, burly arms hurriedly pulling you back, 223rd infantry sewn against his sleeve. Interrupted by the sound of reality, of raucous laughter and the sudden pressure of the springs contracting above you to accommodate weight. Groaning metal in dissent, no doubt a stranger to what has happened endlessly against this mattress.

You don’t need to see. He’s slurring--Valerie could breathe and he’d be a laughing fit. She’s good at what she does, though, and you’re more than grateful to have a coordinating companion for this job. Spinning her web, dragging her claws against that touched, musky flesh. If he leans a little towards the right he’ll be in range for the muzzle of the handgun poised in your steady palm.

She laughs, giggles something about his promise. A proposition, something you detect in his voice to be a touch of warning laced beneath a drowsy snort. She wants to tie him to the bed, try something new. Bats her eyes something pretty, sharp, glossy nails running down his meaty chest. _Please, darlin’? None of the other customers would. Please…?_

Their conversation is nothing out of the ordinary, nothing extraordinary. She becomes braver, adventurous when she throws out the idea of blindfolding him. Begging him again, promising that she’ll let him do whatever he pleases after she’s had her fun. You have a thought in mind as to what he could possibly do to get his turn of amusement--and you know Valerie must know it, too.

It’s as if you finally release a silent breath when Valerie, at long last, plants her heels back onto the floor. Something about her getting another surprise ready followed by Dale’s loud complaint, grouching at her to _jump on my cock already, honey_ as you rise to stand silently from beneath the bed. He’s even a treasure up close--down to his boxers, hard as can be, and _cuffed_ instead to the rails that make up the headboard.

And you do drop on him. Hard, unannounced, reaching a hand back and gripping what he holds so precious _tightly_ with little vindication. He howls so painfully, mouth agape from the throbbing discomfort he isn’t prepared for, bucking between your straddling thighs to prevent it from happening any further.

There’s a soft hush. A watery gag down his throat and the click of a hammer as he finally stills himself to that familiar sound.

You let that silent warning linger for a moment. Let him know that it’s his life in your hands. Not Sherry’s. Not Valerie’s. Not any of the other girls. Women doing what they have to do to make their fair earn, being cheated and exploited by the likes of him. Men like this don’t last--especially with a gun down their throats.

“Hello, Dale,” you whisper softly. Taking in the sweat soaking his body, his arms cuffed and raised. He’s blindfolded with some gaudy sleeping eye mask; at least he can die pretty unlike the rest of them.

“You fuckin’ nigger _cunt_!” Dale spits out suddenly, violently rattling the metal cuffs against the bars. It’s like he’s blinded in more ways than one--the enchanted perfume of Valerie now lost, vaporizing near the door now replaced by phantasmal cigarette smoke and antiseptic. Blind, blind indeed.

Your fingers release his manhood to lift the mask from his eyes, perching it on his forehead. The sight isn’t any better. You, crushing your thighs around his torso as he stares wide-eyed to the casual politeness you bring with a gun aimed between his eyes. The scent of brief, clean laundry combats the stiffly perfumed air and his eyes lay upon the sewn patches above your breasts.

Odd that he’s not concerned about the faded bloodstains against the olive drab.

“...My mistake.” He has the audacity to speak, as if you’ve never pulled a trigger before in your life. “ _You_ must be that nigger’s bitch.”

It’s tense and Valerie’s in the back smoking, watching this unfold until you call for her. She’s at your side, watching as you sit back for a moment and glance down at the handgun in your palm. Flipping it casually suddenly, facing the grip towards her and she doesn’t hesitate a moment to point the muzzle towards him with both hands.

And he’s still opening that _distasteful_ mouth, even as you reach over to the nightstand and pull out what you have stored there--a syringe, filthy, used, tampered with. Something a druggy would use, something an addict would pass around. This isn’t some medical operation--why make it look like one?

“Still fuckin’ lost in ‘Nam, bitch? Can’t take off the uniform? Bet you were a real popular _fuck_ in the jungle, honey, I know I would be first in line,” he bites out, doing whatever he can to get a rile out of you. 

If he struggles he’ll get shot--and maybe that’s why he’s choosing to speak instead, to paint these bed sheets glorious shades of roses. Someone will find out what happened, right? Murdered in _Les Dames Rouges_ , cuffed to a bed no less. Slaughtered by a nurse and a nigger.

You’re thankful for many things. Like for Dale to be struggling, bulging those muscles in his arms and you can see those lovely, thick veins of his rising through sweating skin. Healthy, strong. He might’ve been a good candidate for the army. A good candidate for for the project, more like. There’s a pause when you sit up a little higher, grasping his wrist between cool latex fingers and finding a particularly outstanding vein straining against his flushed skin.

The message seems to finally be clear when he starts to violently struggle, trying to buck off from the mattress as he cries out. Valerie hesitates a moment, glancing over for any idea from you but instead hears his pained moans as you sink the needle in.

One look and it’s not even close to where you want it to be.

“I’m sorry.” You frown, trying to get a better position again. “These hands of mine, so clumsy. You know, from what I’ve learned about heroin junkies…”

You try again and gently, slowly puncture the needle into his flesh. Not pressing down on the plunger, not aiming it anywhere in particular. Curiously, you sweep your wrist a little to the right, and he _howls_ , arms straining violently as you fidget with it against bits of muscle and vein.

A breathless laugh. “...is that they can never get it right the first time. Or the second. Or the third. Takes a couple of practice shots until they hit the right vein. But you?”

Finally, you withdraw the needle. Observing against that dim, somber red neon glow of past injection sites on his arm. With ease, you find his good vein, slide the needle in, and press the plunger down. Procedure goes that adjusted dosages should be emptied before injection--but you’re kind enough to administer every drop into him.

“You’ve made mistakes. You’ve never gotten it right the first time either,” you softly muse, running that strange, gloved sensation along his arm, his chest heaving beneath you. “But you practiced. And you practiced some more. By now, some probably say you’re even a pro. As a medical practitioner, even I can attest you’ve got a steady hand and some good aim. Sherry, on the other hand?”

A shake of your head. Another frown as you pull the needle free, studying that fine sheen coating it. “No, she’s no pro. She’d have made mistakes, just like us when we first started. There’s only one site of injection I found on that arm of hers. Cute of you to dump her body back, though. Hoped she’d have died before anyone could find her, right?”

He’s hysterical, voice pitched as he struggles vigorously again, sweating like a fucking pig. As if you’re _wrong_. “I did that bitch a fucking _favor_! And now you’re gonna try to fucking kill _me?!_ ”

A long, drawn moment of just his heaving breaths, of an uneasy Valerie ready to pull a fucking trigger. End it. Put a bullet through the brain of this racist motherfucker before he has any more reason to attempt another murder on Cassandra’s girls. And you’d rather choke than give him that mercy.

All this time your voice has been even, calm. Like dealing with any other rowdy patient you’ve had. In a few minutes Dale will be drowsy, hallucinating. His heart might beat slower. It might actually stop. By then you’ll be gone. Valerie will uncuff his hands and position him like he’s sleeping. Later she’ll run out the room screaming that he isn’t responding and for someone to check on him.

You untangle yourself from him, his bleary eyes watching you as you politely draw the handgun down from Valerie. She does so almost reluctantly until her hands loosen, allowing you to take it back in control. There’s a fire in her you’re glad exists--immovable, kindled to some undying embers of loyalty and hatred. The wardrobe doors squeak open as you fish for your duffel bag amongst pink stilettos and feathery boas, unzipping it hurriedly as you strip to change.

Latex gloves removed and buttons fastened, you smooth out the wrinkles of your Class B uniform. Pristine, spotless, and clean as a whistle. Also useless and rarely ever worn since you’d been in nothing but dirt and blood for the past six years. More for traditional, propaganda-esque purpose for how professional you look inside of one.

Putting on that soft smile, no one would even question on the streets if you’d recently just killed a man.

“It’s not me who killed you, Dale,” you remind him, tossing the rest of your belongings into your bag before hauling it over a shoulder. With gentle eyes, _caring_ eyes you even tease him at the foot of the bed. 

“It’s you who did. Just like you tried to point the finger at Sherry, remember? And when the coroners come through with an autopsy, they’ll find out that you’ve been inebriated. Had a good fuck on the side, decided to shoot up a sloppy dose of heroin because you’re not thinking straight. Died just like any other heroin bum on the street, right? Might even make front-page.” 

A pondering thought. “Or, maybe it’s so typical… it gets overlooked. And you’ll be just like any other guy.”

Shrugging, you straighten out your skirt before heading towards the door. “Or, more than likely? No coroners show up. No police. None of Sal Marcano’s boys. Your body will decay. You’ll stink. No one here will offer to pay for your funeral. By that time everyone will conclude you’re a waste of space. Haitian mob will probably dump you for the gators in the bayou.”

Finished and opening the creaking door, you offer a quick smile to Valerie. “Thank you, Val. You’ve been a great help. I’ll keep in touch if you need anything.”

“Should be me thanking _you_ , darlin’. You take care of yo’self.”

By the time Dale’s losing conscious, seeing stars and red neon hearts you’re down the street hailing a cab. A shy, flustered conversation with the cab driver about you just returning back from ‘Nam is when Dale knocks out. You’re in River Row wondering if you should get some bucatini at Vito’s when Dale’s breathing shallowly, wetly choking, trying to talk but his tongue is heavy.

When Delray Hollow finally comes into view in the starlit night, his heartbeat’s nothing but a slow thump.

* * *

The motel room’s curtains are drawn, but the lights are still aglow.

To your surprise, even in the heat of night, the doorknob doesn’t budge. As if Donovan cares enough to start locking it now… With a sigh you dig through your bag to find the long lost motel room key, fishing for some time before finally coming across it tangled between your rosary. At long last the door budges, but one surprise leads to another, your hand gripping the knob loosely.

Donovan’s seated on the edge of the bed, holding the radio you’ve always been inclined to keep on you whenever leaving the base of operations. His suit jacket’s been removed, a cigarette puffing large plumes between his lips. Lincoln, leaning near the dresser by the television, has his arms crossed. Unreadable expressions lead to deeper tension and your face falls to worry, slowly swinging the door shut quietly behind you.

The sound of Donovan dialing on and off your radio frequencies leads to nothing but static. No calls from Valerie or Sherry, meaning Dale hasn’t kicked the bucket quite yet. Yet the sound startles you a bit, as it’s the only disruptive noise they’ve given off so far.

Lincoln’s first to break the silence, and his voice has you swallowing. It’s lower, _deeper_ \--the way his voice gets when he’s somber and unimaginably _pissed off_.

“…You wanna start explaining where the _hell_ you’ve been?”

And Donovan’s addition doesn’t help at all, blowing out another fiery breath of smoke as he tosses the radio up and down into his palm. “And explain why you didn’t have your _radio_ on you while you’re at it? Also, you took my fucking gun again, that’s like what? The _fifth_ time this has happened?”

You feel cornered, clutching your bag’s strap tightly. “I was--I was out helping--”

Lincoln appears frustrated, his voice raising just the slightest as he begins pacing. “I got Cassandra, Vito, even _Burke’s_ guys out looking for you. And not one word, not one _fuckin’_ idea for us to go off of if you were still alive, if Marcano’s guys had gotten to you first.”

Just as disappointed from being talked over, you try to explain again. “Listen, I was helping one of Cassandra’s girls, I couldn’t--”

Donovan pulls the cigarette free from his lips, tossing the radio with a flop onto the duvet. A smoking cigarette points accusingly your way. “ _You_ told _me_ absolutely nothing. No details, no whereabouts. Hell, I couldn’t even canvass a wiretapped area to find your ass.”

Annoyed that you can’t even _finish_ , you raise your own voice. “I was out fucking helping Sherry, okay? What do you want me to say? I’m here, I’m fine, best case scenario--I’m _alive_ , guys.”

“And what if something had happened?” Lincoln poses, and you’re just a reasonable distance from his bulky form now. “What then?”

Breathlessly laughing, tired enough as is. “I have to watch you leave this room every single _day_ knowing you could get hurt. Radio or not, Lincoln, I’m _fine_. I needed that radio silence, I couldn’t risk someone tapping me, either--”

Donovan shrugs. “So… what? You were out there helping some Perla prostitute--”

“Her name,” you angrily, thunderously interrupt him, seething fucking _fury_ , “is _Sherry_. And do you know why I couldn’t tell any of you? Because neither of you--”

You eye them both, glaring and heaving. “Neither of you would let me even step foot out of this room if I told you I’d just saved Sherry. Saved Valerie. A whole lot of other girls working this business from the same _fucking_ heroin junkie that tried to killed Sherry and blamed _her_ for doing it. It started with Sherry and Valerie was next--did you _want_ that to happen? Did you?”

The CIA handler is silent, meeting Lincoln’s gaze over your shoulder. Even then Donovan seems to soften a bit, letting his cigarette dangle between loose fingers. With time, your chest heaving, your gaze turning tired, even Lincoln’s blazing eyes quiet into sobered and worried comfort. But you’re exhausted. So, so fucking exhausted, and your voice carries that weight.

“You want me here because I can help,” you quietly mutter, dropping your bag to the floor with a thump. “I can. I am. Even if it’s not always the right way.”

Ever since the hospital fiasco they’ve been on edge. Understanding of your intentions but always overprotective of your whereabouts, to always keep them in the loop. But you’re _equals_ and they’re not your parents, some guardian figure who needs written permission to let you do as you please. If you see a problem you have to fix it--and Sherry needed it, confided in you personally to deal with it and you did. The fact that you’re on the receiving end of this flak not only hurts--it breaches every bit of trust you thought they had in you, instilled within you.

And if they can’t tell by the look on your face alone… 

Distraught and upset, you push past Lincoln and head towards the bathroom. Knowing that he won’t do anything to hurt you but you’re drained, you need a shower from that filth and just to finally fucking sleep. You understand their worry but you don’t need round-the-clock protecting, not for the shit you’ve been through together.

A shower does it. A cold shower to rinse off that grime, ground you back down to earth and cool those heated veins. It’s quiet now in the other rooms and you wonder if they’ve both fallen asleep, and if you should stay the night or crash elsewhere until they’ve cooled off themselves. Quietly you open the bathroom door after getting dressed for the night, slightly surprised to see Lincoln without his jacket and sitting on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his knees.

Donovan’s at the doorway to the tac-center, leaning against the frame as both men look up from the midst of their quiet conversation. For a moment you feel put on the spot again, as if you’d just interrupted something only meant for them when that softened, worried look takes Lincoln’s gaze again upon seeing you. You’re in nothing but one of his old shirts, too big and too loose on you but even then you can’t help but slowly approach them.

Shyly, tiredly, you switch your focus to Donovan’s quieted eyes before he shoots you a little quirk of his lips. By then you’re standing between them, facing Lincoln as he gazes up at you from your standing position. You don’t want to fight. You get it, you do, but no one here does. There are other battles to be won, not start between the people you care for. That seems to be the shared thought behind this as you gently cup Lincoln’s cheek, no apologies from one or the other but a mutual understanding.

_We all fucked up. We get it. We see it. Now we can fix it._

Lincoln’s forehead comes to rest under your breasts, his eyes shutting closed and taking you in. Fresh, gentle, unscathed. He knows that one day you will get hurt, that he can’t always be around to stop it. But for now you’re right--best case scenario, and you’re still here. Between them, still with them. Your fingers stroke against the nape of his neck, Lincoln’s eyelids fluttering at the ease of tension there, leaning up just a moment to press a kiss against your stomach.

With a quiet laugh, you look to Donovan, holding out your hand for him to take and drag you along with the rest.

“Let’s just sleep now, okay?”

Unanimous, of course. And you’re stuck between them, again and again and again.


End file.
